


Detained, Restrained

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mindfuck, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22670938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Tim and Martin get separated while trapped in Michael's domain, and that's when the real fun starts. If your name isn't Timothy Stoker, that is (probably not if your name is Martin Blackwood either, but Tim's a bit too busy trying to get away from this monster with his face and a few  more...appendages than expected to worry about him).
Relationships: Tim Stoker/Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54
Collections: Anonymous, Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Detained, Restrained

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacehopper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/gifts).



Tim doesn't know how long he’s been wandering down this corridor, but it feels like years. He doesn’t know when he lost Martin; only that at some point he realized that he was no longer beside him, and although he looked and looked – shouting his name as loud as he could, walking back and looking for a corner he might have turned or a door, any door, that he might have gone through – he was nowhere to be found. Tim doesn’t understand how they managed to lose each other when they’d been walking together so closely that their arms brushed, but they managed it all the same. He supposes that the monster that called itself Michael had something to do with it – Michael with its…hands and that awful voice and its mad laughter that seemed to echo in Tim’s head long after it had stopped, making him feel like he was the one going mad. Separating them to wander alone seems like the kind of thing that it would find amusing, considering this place.

The walls keep moving, first narrowing until he fears that he’ll be crushed between them, then moving so far away that Tim can barely tell that they are there at all. Yet when he stretches out his hands they brush against something immobile, the corridor precisely as wide as it always was. Occasionally there appear to be doors or turns, but when Tim reaches for the handle or tries to take the new path, there’s no longer anything there. _Tricks and mind games_ , he thinks, and tells himself that he’s not scared, it’s pointless to be scared in an empty corridor, even one as endless as this, but it does no good. It’s quiet here, too quiet. The silence is so thick that it hurts his ears, and Tim fights down the urge to talk, cough, scream; anything to break the thick, smothering silence. He has a horrible feeling that the sound of his own voice would bring the panic to the forefront, and then he will run mindlessly forever, screaming and screaming…only perhaps the screams will actually be laughter, mad laughter that spirals up and down and seems to echo in the skull long after it’s over.

Then, farther head, another door materializes, only this one doesn’t fade the closer he gets, doesn’t shrink to the size of a keyhole or shimmer in front of his eyes. Tim walks a little faster, not quite running. Perhaps whatever trapped them here has gotten sick of playing; perhaps whatever Jon was doing that amused it so is over and they will both be allowed to stumble out into the tunnels, tired and badly frightened but otherwise unscathed.

He’s not an idiot though. He doesn’t just barrel through the door at full speed. He is careful, first listening for any sound of movement on the other side, then when he hears nothing, opening it slowly and only wide enough that he is able to peer with wary caution into the room beyond.

It’s his flat. Tim blinks, opening the door fully but still not stepping through. Yes, this is unmistakably his flat. That’s his sofa, his kitchen - this morning’s breakfast dishes still in the sink. His unmade bed in the corner. Tim doesn’t know why he was brought here specifically, or how Michael knew to do so, but he doesn’t really care. He’s home. He’s safe.

The door shuts behind him with a muted click, and Tim jumps, whirling around. He hadn’t even realized that he’d stepped into the room. The door behind him hangs in midair for a few seconds before winking out of existence like it was never there in the first place. Tim takes a deep breath, shoulders dropping. That was an experience and he never wants it again, but he’s home now. He’s going to get himself a drink and then head back to the Institute. It’s the last place that he wants to be right now (ever again), but he has to make sure that Martin made it out okay.

He spots movement out of the corner of his eye a second before his feet get all tangled up in something on his floor and he falls to the ground. He hits with a bone-rattling thud, cursing his sudden clumsiness – right before the thing he’s become tangled in wraps around his ankles, tightening painfully.

“What the fu-“ he starts, and then something slides into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue and making him gag. He bites down, but if it hurts at all there is no sign. Certainly nothing is removed. Something long and snakelike slithers around his arms and pins them to his sides. It all happens in the space of seconds, and Tim struggles uselessly against whatever is holding him down, eyes rolling in his head, trying desperately to see what it is that has him; what monster has invaded his home.

There’s a noise from next to him, a wet, slithery sort of noise, and Tim looks towards the sound and finds himself staring into his own grinning face. It’s a real one, too, lips stretched wide and eyes crinkled at the corners. The grin makes him look friendly, approachable. He’s used that grin on plenty of people over the years; he knows the effect it has. It’s working on him a little even through his terror, and that just ramps it up even more. His struggles increase, growing wilder; he’s thrashing and bucking against whatever is wound around him, keeping him pinned, groaning and gagging around the one in his mouth, his head slips slightly to the side – as far as he’s allowed – and his eyes widen as they take in the thing next to him.

It’s a body he knows as intimately as his own, because it _is_ his own. If his body had a few extra bits, that is. They’re everywhere, _everywhere_ ; thick, tongue-like appendages coming out of his -its - back, chest and abdomen. Tim can even see smaller ones poking out of it's arms. There are odd lumps along more of its skin, moving slightly, almost pulsing, and he has the sudden, horrified realization that there are more of those things just under the flesh, waiting to emerge. The one inside of his mouth is thick and warm, tasting faintly of salt. Tim's eyes follow its length and he sees that's the biggest and thickest of the bunch - and its source is right between the thing's legs. Tim gives a muffled, horrified cry and thrashes again, mindless with revulsion, trying fruitlessly to spit it out. _This can't be happening,_ he thinks, but he knows it is. It is.

The limbs wrapped around him tighten, winding about him and forcing him into stillness. Another slides up his front and presses against his throat; a warning. 

“Stop,” it says, and Tim recognizes the voice as his own, but thick, muffled as though it’s the one who has a foreign object jammed past its teeth and filling its mouth, and Tim, wary of the pressure against his jugular, does as the creature says, letting his body go lax.

“Good,” it says, and Tim hears the satisfaction in its stolen voice and shudders. “That’s good.”

The limb, no the

_(go ahead Tim name it call it what it is)_

tentacle slides away from his throat but doesn’t go far. It joins another in slipping under his shirt, sliding over the bare skin of his belly. One plays briefly with the hair around his navel and then they continue to his nipples and press down, rubbing in a slow, sinuous rhythm that makes them tighten, shoots sparks down Tim’s body, makes him want…he gives a noise of protest and tries to shift away, but the tentacles press him harder into the floor. “Sh,” the thing says, croons really, as it continues fondling Tim’s chest. It moves closer, settling beside him and using its hands – Tim’s hands – to undo his belt and tug his jeans off of his hips. Tim makes no effort to help, but yet another tentacle slides underneath him and lifts his body so that it can tug them down. The hands go to Tim’s body as well, now that they’re close enough to reach; one sliding over his prick in a slow rhythm while the other begins to play with his balls, squeezing and groping and occasionally giving the hair growing around them a sharp tug. Yet another tentacle squirms in between his arse cheeks, pressing in, making Tim gasp. He clenches, trying to force it out, but the thing just chuckles as the tentacle inside of him narrows too; slides in even deeper before expanding, and it hurts but it also feels good, good enough that it’s a struggle not to push into it. “Be good.”

 _No_ , Tim thinks, _no, I won’t._ The Tim-thing chuckles again as if it hears him. ( _Maybe it does,_ Tim thinks. _It's got my face; who knows what else it has access to?_ ) and continues caressing him with hands and tentacles both, everything moving at once, touching and stroking him all over, working to draw a response out of Tim’s body that he doesn’t want to give. The tentacle in his mouth moves, curls around his tongue in a parody of a kiss, and though Tim doesn’t want to do so he finds his mouth moving around the flesh inside it; his tongue responding, kissing back. _No_ , he thinks again, but it’s only a token protest, and a weak one at that. He opens his mouth wider; begins to suck on the flesh inside, matching the rhythm of the tentacle in his arse, the hand on his prick. His hips begin to move, to rock up into the hand sliding over his prick and then back into the tentacle inside him, working towards the pleasure they promise. He’s letting it in, letting it have what it wants…and all the while that voice – his _own_ voice – continues to pour into his ears, filling them the same way he’s being filled everywhere else, slipping into his mind and twining, twisting until he's not sure he hasn't been thinking this all along.

“Yes, yes, that's it. It feels good, doesn’t it? Letting it happen. Letting me in. You can keep this, you know. You can be like this, like this forever. No more thinking about your brother. No more guilt or pain. Just this. This and the feeding, and that’s good, too. It’s so good, so good to let it happen. To let me in. To let _us_ in. Let us in. Let us-“

Tim moans, high and needy, hips jerking, fingers scrabbling at the floor. He’s no longer being held down, but escape is the last thing on his mind. All he cares about is this: his body on fire, the nearly overwhelming pleasure he feels with each stroke, each caress, each movement of the thing inside him, body quaking already, thighs trembling. There’s not an inch of his body that isn’t being touched, and it _is_ good. Good to give in, good to open himself up to this, to let go and not have to think about anything, just feel. And oh, _yes_ , he wants to let it in. Let it in over and over, take it in again and again until it fills him completely and he can forget everything else, all the things that weigh him down and make it so hard to go on. _Yes,_ he thinks, _yes, yes, oh yes,_ and his hips start to move faster, jerking up harder and harder as he feels the pleasure ramp up even higher, toes curling. The hand on his prick tightens, twists the way that Tim likes, the way that he does it to himself when he can’t sleep and he hasn’t found someone to take home and he needs a few minutes of reprieve from the shit that he deals with every day – Jon’s secrecy and paranoia and Martin’s inability to see it for what it is, his insistence in letting him get away with it, his fussing. Sasha coming after them looking all elongated and _wrong,_ Elias’s watchful eyes and knowing smiles and most of all the guilt and the certainty that it should have been him that was taken so long ago. That it’s his fault that Danny is no longer here. Most of all to distract himself from how much he misses his brother, and how he would give anything to have him back.

None of it matters now, as the hand twists and pulls at the same time, almost pain but not quite, and the tentacle inside of him widens, spreads, again just short of painful. The thing in his mouth slides deeper, slipping down into his throat, and this time Tim welcomes it. Opens his mouth and throat as best he can, the lack of air heightening every sensation; his body tightening, tensing as the pleasure spirals up, up, up, and then breaks, crashing through him so hard that he sees spots behind his eyes and very nearly loses consciousness.

Or maybe that’s the lack of oxygen.

Tim comes back to himself to the sound of the door clicking shut. He opens his eyes – when had he closed them? – and realizes that he’s back in the tunnels, lying on the floor, once again fully clothed. He sits up too fast and winces – his body aches all over, his arse and jaw worst of all. He rubs at the latter, his hand coming away slicked with semi dried spit that smells faintly mineral. He wipes his hand on his jeans and stands on legs that feel like they might spill him over at any moment, hand braced against the wall for support. Every movement sends shocky little tingles down his already unsteady legs, intermingled pain and pleasure that makes him want to touch himself, to press down and relieve an ache that he knows would be almost unbearable if he hadn’t just come harder than he has in his entire life.

“Okay,” he says shakily, speaking aloud in spite of his earlier resolution not to. His voice is hoarse. “Okay, it’s fine. We’re fine. We just have to-“

“Tim?” The voice is faint and slightly breathless, but it’s unmistakably Martin. Tim looks up and sees him farther down the corridor, hurrying towards him. Tim takes a deep breath and forces his legs to move, half afraid they won’t support him. They do, however, and as soon as he and Martin are within touching distance Martin grabs at him, reaches out and clutches at his shoulders like he can’t believe he’s really there. Tim would bat his hands away but he feels about the same, and he lifts his hands to wrap around Martin’s wrists, proof that it’s really him standing there. 

“Finally!” Martin says, too loud, eyes wide and a little wild around the edges. “I’ve been looking for you for hours, didn’t you hear m-Tim? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I-I’m fine.”

Martin peers at him, brows drawn together in concern. He seems prepared to forget about whatever it is that has him so unnerved in favor of fussing, and Tim fidgets a bit under that stare, wondering how much he can see; how much evidence he’s showing of what has just happened to him – what he’s allowed to happen. He wonders just how debauched he looks, how ruffled, and resists the urge to look down at himself to check. “What?” he snaps, irritated, and Martin flinches a little but doesn’t back down.

“You don’t sound fine. Your voice-“

“Okay, fine. I – there was a door. And when I went through it, there was –“ Tim shudders a little, and Martin’s eyes go big and round and sympathetic. More, there’s recognition there, and Tim thinks that he probably went through a door of his own, though he’s sure that the similarities between their experiences end there. If _Martin_ had been tentacle-fucked by something wearing his own face, he thinks with the tiniest twist of envy, he would be shaking, too, but with the proper mix of fear and disgust rather than as a reaction to remembered pleasure. _He would have hated it._

Martin's eyes search his face. He opens his mouth - maybe to ask another question, maybe to commiserate - Tim doesn’t know and doesn’t care. He pulls Martin's hands off of his shoulders and takes a step back, needing to put a little distance between them. “It doesn't matter; it's over. Can we just go? I want to get the hell out of here.”

Martin nods. “Yes,” he agrees fervently. “Let’s do that.”

A laugh sounds, echoing around the room, so loud it hurts Tim’s ears. “You don’t want to stay and play?” Michael asks, voice coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, and they both turn frantically, looking around, but there’s no one there. 

“Or maybe you’ve played enough,” it says, slyly amused, and Tim feels his face heat. He glances at Martin to find him looking anywhere and everywhere else, his own face flaming, and for a split second he wonders if-but no. It’s not possible, not in a million years. Even if it were, it’s none of his business, and besides, it doesn't really matter. As real as it seemed - as real as it _felt_ \- it was all just a trick of this place. Had to be. “Now that we’ve all had our fun, please leave. I’m tired and no longer find you amusing.” As it speaks, the voice changes, becomes menacing. “Get out.” A door materializes in front of them, wide open and leading to what looks like a room deep in the tunnels they were forced out of what feels like forever ago. Someone has been living there - there’s bits of trash littered around, a wrapper here, a paper cup there, and a pile of what looks like wet rags bundled towards the far wall – and they’ll probably have to think about that later, but right now it’s empty and that’s all that matters. They hesitate, looking at each other, and Tim feels something sharp poke him in the back. It hurts quite a bit, and Tim makes a noise of pain and jerks away from it and out the door, seeing Martin doing the same out of the corner of his eye.

They stumble and nearly spill to the floor, only managing to stay upright by clutching at each other for support. Tim feels something trickling down his back and suspects that whatever had poked them has drawn blood. He thinks of Michael’s hands and shivers, and Martin gives him a curious look. Tim shakes his head at him and looks around warily, expecting another trap, but everything seems to be right. “It’s over,” Martin says, voice thick with relief, and Tim nods, finally relaxing. They’re still leaning against each other, but Tim doesn’t have the energy to try to pull away. He’s sore and tired and all he wants is to go home and pretend that he isn’t thinking about what happened when he walked through another door in those corridors, that he isn’t wondering what might have happened had he been allowed to agree to the other Tim’s offer. Then his eyes light on the thing he’d mistaken for a pile of rags. 

It isn't rags.

It’s the body of a man, beaten beyond recognition, and in the split second between that realization and Martin’s cry of mingled disgust and dismay Tim wants desperately to be back in that other room, and to be able to say yes, please, anything. Whatever it takes to get him out of this.

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a treat for chocolatebox 2020. I really hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
